Time passed, and still Evarne sat motionless—thinking, thinking. In the first dreadful minutes of solitude she had been conscious of very little save cruel, crushing despair, the most abject hopelessness. Her one other clearly defined idea had been that she must not, dare not, allow the wild paroxysm of anguish that was rending her brain, to get the mastery over her will-power. Fiercely resolved not to lose self-control even for a moment, she forced herself to sit calm and motionless, to drive back tears, to stifle sobs, groans, cries. And in time this resolutely simulated composure became very nearly genuine. Gradually she found herself growing able to think rationally, not desperately. Thus there was some chance for a practical idea—an inspiration—to evolve itself from out the rapid progression of her thoughts.

She was possessed of a quiet obstinacy that would not—that could not—acknowledge final defeat so long as the most shadowy possibility of ultimate success remained. The feeblest glimmer of hope was sufficient to support her courage, her energies. Now, although the end appeared to be so near, although she was faced by obstacles that certainly looked insurmountable, she could not bring herself to submit with meekness and resignation to what so surely seemed to be written in her fate.

Thus, still rebellious, she sat thinking, thinking. But no plan of possible action occurred to her mind. What could be done in two days to still a man's tongue, when prayers and entreaties and threats had all alike failed absolutely? The only method yet untried was that of bribery, and there she was a bankrupt. She had nothing to offer—absolutely no inducement to hold out.

Slowly but surely the conviction forced itself upon her calmer reflection that she could indeed do no more; that she was hopelessly in Morris's power. She felt herself enveloped by a fresh access of despair. What a dire misfortune—what a fearsome calamity—that he should have come upon the scene just at this crisis. He had declared almost with certainty that had he found her already his cousin's wife he would have held his peace. Why, oh why, had he not been kept out of her path for two short months longer—just until she was indeed safely married?

Suddenly she started to her feet, her eyes glistening, her expression eager and alert. At length a light shone in the dense gloom—in the tangled jungle a path had been found.

At this moment Philia was heard opening the street door. The old woman made straight for the sitting-room, declaring as she came—

"Edie Gordon didn't know what pattern——"

The words died on her lips as she beheld Evarne.

"My gosh, whatever made yer dress up pretty like that, to spend the evenin' alone?" Then she added in a tone of sudden suspicion: "Seems to me there's somethin' goin' on in this 'ere 'ouse what I don't know of! What 'ave I bin and done, to be kept in the dark about everythin' like this for?"

"You shan't be any longer, Philia. After your supper I'm going to tell you everything."

"I'll buck up, then. 'A full stummick maketh a wise 'ead and a kind 'eart'—Shakespeare."

Ere long she had finished her meal, and was ensconced in the arm-chair. Evarne drew up a footstool and sat down, resting against the old woman's knee. But she remained without speaking. Once or twice she half started upon her task, but the words died on her lips.

Philia at length broke the silence.

"Dearie, I'm almost old enough to be your grandmother, but for all that we're jist real pals, ain't we? Remember, pals can always trust each other, and nothin' ever makes any real difference between 'em."

Thus encouraged, Evarne took the plunge and told the story of her life. When she had finished, she asked pleadingly—

"You don't mind? You're not very disappointed in me, are you, Philia? I did care for him, really and truly I did."

Her eyes were downcast, the tone of her voice was full of anxiety. The old woman's response took the form of a query.

"What do yer expect me to say to yer?"

Evarne shook her head somewhat hopelessly.

"I don't know," she murmured.

"Can't yer look me straight in the face? I can't answer proper-like if yer won't."

Evarne's mind was far too entirely taken up with deeper thoughts, with future schemes, for her to be really overweighed with embarrassment before Philia. Without any effort she raised her head instantly. The necessity of an upturned face for an answer was then made clear. The old woman bent forward and kissed her straight on the lips—a noisy, unabashed kiss.

"I might think badly of some gals, Evarne, but you—why, no matter who was to tell me yer was a bad lot, I'd say 'Beggin' yer pardin', I knows 'er too well! She's real good!'"

Evarne threw her arms impulsively around her old friend's neck, and murmured her thanks.

"But listen," she continued, settling herself down again upon the footstool. "What I've told you is only the cause of my present trouble."

But almost in the same instant Philia had exclaimed—

"My gosh, what about Mr. Danvers?"

"That's it—that's it! I haven't told him, and I never mean to, never, never!"

"And yer'd be a regular fool if yer did," declared this worldly-minded counsellor.

"But—oh, it's too dreadful; it's too horrid!"

"Hush, hush! Don't git excited."

Evarne waited a minute, then went on quietly enough to relate the whole of her doubts and anxieties.

"At first I was in despair, as you may imagine," she concluded; "but now I've got a fresh idea in my mind, and I want your help."

Philia rubbed her hands together with evident satisfaction. She had flung herself whole-heartedly on her pal's side in this affair.

"If we do succeed," went on Evarne, "I shall owe all my happiness to you, and so will Geoffrey, though he won't know it. I shall be grateful to you for ever and ever, and I shall look after you all your life, Philia. Now, listen carefully. Morris said that if he had found me already his cousin's wife—if our marriage had been an accomplished fact—then—very likely—he would of his own accord have remained silent forever concerning what he knows. He entirely repudiated the idea that his determination to betray me is prompted by any spite or hatred. As it is, he has promised to hold his peace until Wednesday evening. Very well, before that time I mean to be Geoffrey's wife."

"Goodness gracious to me, what a notion!"

"It's absolutely my last resource. It's my one chance; my only hope. I shall persuade Geoff to take me abroad immediately, so that Morris cannot straightway tell him my secret in a sudden outburst of rage. If he writes, I shall see that Geoff doesn't get the letter. Oh, I know it's leading me through vile deceitful tracks, but having started, I must go on. But I wish I'd never started, Philia. That's Heaven's truth. I wish I'd never started! Ah, well! Besides—once I am Geoffrey's wife, the keeping of this secret becomes a matter of life or death to me."

"But if the snake chose to tell after yer was safely married, 'e couldn't do no 'arm then, could 'e?"

"No harm? Oh, Philia! If Geoffrey once reproached me for entrapping him—if I heard him regret his marriage—if he ever expressed half a wish that he could be free again, then, why then, there would be but one course open to me. I should kill myself."

Philia started.

"Don't talk of sich a thing," she almost wailed; "don't plan it in cold blood like that. It's mad and wicked."

"Who says it's wicked?"

"Why, everybody knows it is."

"'There's nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' Did you ever hear that before? 'Everybody knows,' forsooth! Oh, Philia, how can you be so blind! Surely it's perfectly obvious that it would be the one and only right course. As far as honour goes I should have no choice. Don't you believe it's necessarily wicked to kill one's self. Sometimes the weak—the cowardly—the really despicable thing to do is to cling to life. Oh, I'm beginning to hate myself—I'm being dragged through the mud and grimed almost beyond my own recognition. There, don't look at me like that. But you mustn't think I'm so infamous as to be planning to use Geoff's blind love—his noble, unquestioning trust in me—as the very means by which to fetter him in bonds that would remain unbreakable, even though they might suddenly become repulsive to him. It is because power lies in these hands of mine—soft and slender though they are—see them," and as she held them out and eyed them askance, they shook like aspen leaves. "It is because I can cut asunder all earthly ties between us, and set him free, that I dare expose him to the risk. It's no use, Philia. I can't love in a sane, temperate, moderate sort of manner—I can't do it, I tell you! I love Geoff so much more than myself—so infinitely much more—that life or death for me seems scarcely worth a thought."

No words came to the old woman; not even Shakespeare was able to suggest to her any comfort for this trembling girl, gliding so swiftly and surely into deceit and sin.

"I needn't have told you of what I intend to do in the event of Morris's betraying me after my marriage, though I shall tell him," Evarne went on; "but I—I—couldn't bear that you should misjudge me, dear. It would be dreadful to me to think that you believed I was merely planning all this from an unscrupulous desire to make my own position secure at all costs."

"As if I'd think anything of the sort!"

"Well, if you did, I for one couldn't blame you. I know it must look like it. Oh, Philia, I'm miserable at what I'm doing," Evarne cried, knitting her white brow. "If anyone had told me a week ago that I should sink to deliberate scheming to make Geoff marry me quickly, and that I was seriously proposing to watch his correspondence, I should—there, I am mad, perhaps! I could almost wish to believe it. There is no truth, no honour in me! Oh, Philia, Philia, how I hope my dead father cannot see what I am doing!"

She shuddered, and buried her face convulsively in her friend's lap. The old woman, full of pity, passed her hand over the thick locks.

"Make up yer mind once and for all, my pet. Think about it well. Don't go and do what yer will be sorry for."

The head was lifted immediately, defiantly.

"Oh, I know what I am going to do. I have done with thinking. I am going to marry Geoff."

"But 'ow are yer goin' to work the trick, so sudden like, without 'im wonderin' what's in yer mind?"

"That's where you've got to help me. I don't see quite how to do it alone. With your aid it will be wickedly easy for me to—to deceive him, because he trusts me so entirely. Ah well! Now listen to my plan...."

Tired of her low seat, she drew up a chair close to Philia.

Long they sat into the night, arranging, discussing, even rehearsing what was to be done on the morrow. At length they separated, but slumber was not for Evarne. No sooner had she laid her weary head upon the pillow than there came to her from the distance the steady throb, throb of machinery.

"What can that be?" she mused fretfully. "There's no factory about here, and if there were, why should it be working in the middle of the night?" She rose up on her elbow to listen; the sound ceased. Once more she sought repose; the steady, distant beating recommenced. "I couldn't sleep at the best of times through that persistent noise," she sighed.

Then she seemed to hear cautious footsteps within her room. For a moment every muscle of her body contracted with terror, and the thud of the distant engines increased in volume tenfold. Starting up, she struck a match. The room was empty. As she lay down once more she realised the meaning of all these strange, inexplicable sounds. Those steps, that dull, steady throbbing, all originated within her own tortured brain.

Repeatedly through that night of wakefulness she could have believed she heard movements, even whispers, within the room. She lay on the borderland of slumber, against her will composing endless appeals to Geoff, begging for mercy, for forgiveness, for continued love, going over and over the pleas she might have uttered to Morris but had neglected.

"If I could sleep—oh, if I could only sleep!" she cried wearily.

But the day broke without her having won oblivion for a single minute.